


Begin Again

by Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Brandy Hall, Chronic Illness, Elves, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hobbits, Hurt/Comfort, The Shire, Young Frodo Baggins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-03 02:44:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6593551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley/pseuds/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his parent's death Frodo develops an illness that dogs him for most of his youth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own any of the characters, settings or main events in this tale. They belong to JRR Tolkien. This is non profit fanfic.

“Frodo? Come on, Poppet. You’ve stayed in your room long enough now. Come and join your Uncle Saradoc and me for second breakfast.”

Aunt Esmeralda’s coaxing tones were accompanied by a light tap on his door and Frodo looked up from his book with a sigh. His Aunt meant well, he knew. A part of him also knew that her words were correct. He could not stay in this warm dark womb of a room forever.

“I’ll be there in a minute Auntie,” he called quietly as he closed his book. Frodo did not bother to mark the page. He knew the story well. It was a tale about the beginning of the world. An elvish tale given to him by his father on Drogo’s last birthday.

His last birthday. Frodo glanced down at the beautifully tooled cover. It had, indeed, been Papa’s last birthday. There would be no more. At least . . . the day would come and go each year but there would be no reason to bake a special cake and there would be no-one to distribute presents. He fingered the deep blue ribbon he had been using as a bookmark, bringing it to his nose and inhaling deeply. Yes . . . it still smelled faintly of lavender . . . of Mama. The smell always reminded him of Mama and he was not sure whether that was good or bad. He need only catch the scent to be reminded of her embracing arms but that only served to remind him that they were no longer there.

He draped the ribbon across the book and placed both reverently upon his bedside table before rising from the bed, fastening his weskit and turning down the lamp. 

His room at home had a window, with pretty yellow curtains. Mama had wanted to replace those curtains once, with some thicker ones, but he had pleaded with her not to. He liked to be awoken by sunshine filtered through their thin yellow fabric for it gave his room a warm golden glow that was comfortable and welcoming. That little smial belonged to someone else now and this new room suited his sombre mood better.

Frodo took the four steps from bed to door in near darkness and opened the portal hesitantly. As he was now under the care of Auntie Esmeralda and Uncle Saradoc he had been moved closer to their rooms, in the quieter upper family section of Brandy Hall. He had been staying in the guest apartments before, in a much noisier part, when he and his family had come visiting. At first, Frodo had found the constant hubbub frightening after the peace of his family's little smial. Then he had grown to quite enjoy it. There was always something going on to hold his attention.

This section of the Hall was quiet, but not like his home . . . his old home . . . he corrected himself as he padded down the hallway to his Auntie and Uncle’s small suite of rooms. This was not the peaceful quiet of the little brook murmuring at the bottom of the garden and the chirp of sparrows in the trees. The quiet here was of thick walls and carpets, closed doors and heavy upholstery. It was not a silence that one listened to but one that seemed to eat sound. 

Frodo’s parents were buried in the little graveyard in the valley and it felt to the child that he too had been buried these past three weeks.

Reaching a large plain door at the end of the hallway, Frodo paused to run fingers through his unruly hair, suddenly realising that he had forgotten to brush it this morning. Mama had always brushed his hair in the mornings, even after he was old enough to do it for himself. He tugged at his weskit and knocked timidly.

“Come in,” came Saradoc’s rich tones, and Frodo stepped into the small living room, squinting for a moment in the sunlight streaming through the large round window in the outer wall. When he had managed to blink the room into focus he found his Uncle smiling across at him from his seat at the breakfast table.

“You don’t have to knock to come in here, lad.”

“I’m sorry Uncle. I forgot,” Frodo murmured, staring at the carpet.

Saradoc sighed. “Don’t stand on ceremony. Come and take your seat.” His uncle indicated a chair next to him that had been thoughtfully raised with cushions to accommodate the still growing child.

“Thank you, Uncle Saradoc.” Frodo crossed the room and scrambled into the chair, blushing and muttering his thanks again when Saradoc pushed him closer to the table. Frodo’s feet dangled several inches from the floor so he tucked them behind the rungs to stop them swinging.

Aunt Esmeralda appeared from their tiny kitchen, a flurry of yellow skirts and perspiration damp curls. She set a heaped plate before her husband and turned a sunny smile on Frodo.

“Well now, Frodo. What would you like to start with? I’ve eggs and bacon, sausage and mushrooms and I could fry you a slice of bread if you like.”

Frodo glanced across at his uncle’s plate, to find the items listed. Normally he would have liked them all but somehow they didn’t smell the same as when Mama cooked them. He swallowed back an irrational urge to burst into tears at that thought. Despite his mind’s disapproval however, his stomach growled to be filled.

“Could I just have some scrambled eggs and mushrooms, please Auntie?”

His aunt wiped her hands with her apron and regarded him quizzically. “Are you sure? Wouldn’t you like a rasher of bacon with that? Or a nice juicy sausage?”

Frodo shook his head. “No. Thank you.”

“Alright then, Poppet.” Esmeralda cast a meaningful look at her husband before bustling back into the kitchen.

Saradoc attacked his plate with a will. “Well, Frodo. What are you going to do today? It being the end of the week there’s no lessons today. What will you do with your time?”

Frodo turned his gaze to the window and watched sunlight sparkle upon the river in the distance. “I don’t know. I have a book to read.”

His uncle did not look up from his plate but his knife hesitated in its dissection of a sausage. “I hope that doesn’t mean you’re going to spend another day locked up in that room of yours. We put the bedrooms in the inner wall for a reason. You don’t need daylight to sleep and that’s what you’re supposed to do there. You’ll damage your eyes, sitting in the dark and reading by lamplight day in, day out.”

Frodo reached for the glass of apple juice set by his plate. “Perhaps I could read in here?” he suggested. The juice was just the right combination of sweet and tart and he emptied the glass quickly, surprised to discover how thirsty he was.

“I’d rather you went outside in the fresh air for a bit, lad. You’re beginning to look a mite pasty and you need some roses putting back in those cheeks,” his uncle replied around a mouthful of sausage and fried bread.

Frodo was saved from making a reply by the return of his aunt with breakfast. She put it down in front of him with a flourish and Frodo noticed that she had added that rasher of bacon after all. He poked at it with his fork; not at all happy about the strange way it smelled. He usually liked bacon but this just didn’t smell right. His aunt noticed his toying.

“You don’t have to eat it. I just hoped I could change your mind if you saw it.” She refilled his glass and Frodo picked it up at once.

“Thank you, Auntie Esme. But I really don’t feel like eating a big breakfast today.” He pushed the bacon to one side and scooped up a small forkful of egg.

Nodding in approval Aunt Esmeralda brought in her own plate and she and Saradoc kept up a steady stream of conversation about the doings of relations and the state of the crops. They did not ask Frodo for his opinion on anything, for which he was very grateful. He felt so weary today and just getting the food from plate to mouth seemed to take all the energy he could muster, although he did down two more glasses of apple juice.

When the meal was finished Saradoc left them to tidy away and wash the pots, after which Esmeralda shooed her nephew off. Mindful of his uncle’s wishes, Frodo collect his book and cloak and went in search of somewhere to sit outside and read. He ended up beneath an old oak by the river.

The rhythmic tumble of the river combined with his initial weariness and, before he knew it, Frodo was asleep. How long he would have slept he did not find out, for he was awakened from an unpleasant dream of drowning by Petunia, one of Brandy Hall’s many youngsters. She had been sent in search of him by Esmeralda when it looked as though he was going to miss afternoon tea, as well as second breakfast, elevenses and luncheon. Needless to say, Petunia was not in the best of moods at the prospect of being made late for her own tea by her errand, but Frodo endured her scolding silently after his initial apology. 

When Frodo did not eat much at the tea table his aunt laid a hand on his forehead, worriedly. “No sign of fever. I know you’ve not felt much like eating since the accident but if you don’t eat more you will make yourself ill, Poppet.”

“I’m sorry, Auntie Esme. I’ll try.” He ate another couple of sandwiches and a piece of cake but everything tasted slightly sour again. He did drink a lot of tea, though, for he was still quite parched.

After helping his aunt with the clearing away Frodo sneaked off to his bedroom, intending to read. But when his aunt came to call him to supper she found him fast asleep with his book in his lap. Unwilling to wake him, Esmeralda put the book aside, loosened his clothes and covered the lad up. It was still early days and people reacted differently to grief. Perhaps one of Frodo’s ways of coping was to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Frodo was surprised to find himself in bed but still wearing his breeches and shirt, when he awoke. He shifted, a little groggily, and tried to clench the fingers of his right hand. He supposed he must have been lying on it during the night because it tingled and he couldn’t seem to grip properly with it.

From the candle at his bedside he lit his lamp and arose to wash and dress, or at least put on a fresh shirt. He was just brushing his hair when Aunt Esmeralda knocked to call him to breakfast and he surprised Saradoc by arriving at the table only a couple of minutes late for first breakfast. His reward was a wide grin and Frodo basked in it.

“Morning, Frodo. Are you ready for lessons today?”

“Yes, Uncle.” He enjoyed school even more nowadays for it helped to occupy his mind.

Saradoc frowned as Frodo dropped his butter knife for the second time. “A bit kack-handed today, aren’t you, Lad? Not like you.”

“Sorry Uncle. I think I must have slept on it. It will be alright in a little while.”

The older hobbit returned to the letter he was reading and snorted, laying it on the table between them as he took a spoon to his porridge. “Would you just read that!” He poked at a paragraph half way down the page with the end of his spoon handle. 

Frodo leaned forward, blinking. But the words would not come into focus. He rubbed his eyes and blinked again so that the words became less illegible, resolving into a meticulously rounded hand.

“Do pass on my kindest regards to that poor dear mite, Frodo, and make sure that he wraps up warmly for it is still early in the year and the air is prone to sudden frosts.” 

Frodo hardly needed to skim down to the bottom of the page to find Aunt Dora’s signature.

Saradoc snorted again as he refolded the missive. “Anyone would think you were some early rose instead of a strong, healthy hobbit lad.”

Frodo decided that his uncle’s comment did not require a reply and turned back to his own breakfast. He was not really hungry and he still missed his Mama’s cooking but did not want to upset his aunt. Managing to down a small bowl of porridge and a slice of bread and butter he wished he knew what his aunt did to food to make everything taste vaguely sour. Needless to say the meal did not sit comfortably in his stomach.

“You look pale, Frodo dear. Are you feeling sick?” his aunt asked as he pushed aside his plate.

Frodo considered telling her he felt well but in truth he was beginning to feel a bit odd. “I’m sorry, Auntie. Maybe I’m just tired. My tummy is not feeling good and my arm aches a bit.” His hand still tingled and he was having trouble holding his cup.

Esmeralda exchanged a questioning glance with her husband, who merely shrugged his shoulders . . . apparently deciding that this was female territory. Esmeralda glared at him, and then her face softened as she looked upon the little lad opposite her, his blue eyes downcast.

“Why don’t you settle down on the couch for a little while? Maybe you’ll feel better if you stay quiet and I’ll be close by if you need me. I can manage to clear up on my own this morning and I’ll send word to your teacher.” Her suggestion was met with a wan smile and a small grateful nod. “Thank you, Auntie.”

Saradoc rose and planted a kiss on his wife’s cheek. “I have work to do. Don’t bother about second breakfast for me. I’ll be eating with Denny.”

He made no further comment but Esmeralda sighed as she watched him leave. She recognised the glimmer in her husband’s eyes too well. As a lad Saradoc had been brought up with an iron rod, never allowed once to forget what responsibility would one day be his. Frodo’s behaviour would have been called, “shirking”, by his father and not pandered to. Esmeralda had determined long ago that no child of theirs would be raised in that way and that now included Frodo in her eyes. There would likely be words that evening, after Frodo had gone to bed and she did not relish the prospect.

She turned back to the table, to find Frodo looking at her expectantly. “May I leave the table, please?”

“Of course Poppet. Off you go. Why don’t you finish your book?”

“Thank you for a nice breakfast, Auntie.” With those words he slid off his cushions and went to fetch his book. By the time he returned Esmeralda was already clearing the table.

Settling back amongst the cushions, Frodo tried to concentrate on his book but the words kept blurring. He blinked as something flashed just beyond his line of sight but, turning quickly, he could see nothing that could have caught the sun. He returned to his book but became increasingly aware of discomfort in his stomach. Suddenly his auntie was bending over him, a soft hand on his brow and concern in her eyes.

“You really aren’t feeling well, are you Poppet?” She plumped a couple of the cushions and set them at one end of the settee. “Why don’t you put your feet up?”

Frodo complied willingly when she lifted his legs onto the settee and pushed his shoulders gently back into the cushions. She smiled, brushing his hair off his brow before lifting the book from his fingers.

“Close your eyes and see if you can nap for a while.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I won’t tell your Uncle Sara.”

Frodo curled up on his side and closed his eyes at once. Lying down certainly made his stomach settle a little but the bright sun streaming through the window was making his eyes hurt and giving him a headache. He felt the soft brush of lips on his cheek as his auntie kissed him . . . just as Mama used to do.

“Thank you, Auntie Esme,” he murmured drowsily.

He had hoped to sleep until he felt better but it was not to be, for his headache grew worse with each heartbeat. Within minutes Esmeralda was drawn back to the settee by Frodo’s whimpers. She sat down at his side, concernedly.

“What is it, Frodo?”

Frodo gave up any pretence of being able to cope with this level of pain and tears leaked from beneath his thick lashes. “My head hurts so.” Suddenly he pushed himself upright, trying desperately to climb off the settee. “Sick!” was all he had time to say before he flung himself to one side and threw up all of his breakfast on the floor at Esmeralda’s feet. For a moment his aunt was too stunned but when she heard his heartbroken wails she caught him up gently and laid him back on the cushions.

“I’m so sorry Auntie. I didn’t mean to.”

“Hush now, Poppet. You couldn’t help it. I’ll get something to clean it up and some ginger tea to settle your tummy,” Esmeralda soothed as she wiped his lips and chin with her hanky and stood up. “You just stay there and I’ll fetch you a bowl in case you need to be sick again.”

Her words were almost lost in the pounding of Frodo’s head, made worse by the sobs he could no longer contain. He felt as though knives were being pushed through the left side of his head again and again and again, and he had to screw up his eyes against the light. So intense was his discomfort in fact that he knew nothing but the pounding until a hand slipped carefully beneath his head and a little bitter liquid was trickled between his lips. Frodo tried to turn away but the cup followed him.

“Come on, Poppet. It will help you feel better. I promise.”

He swallowed, trusting but unable to prevent a grimace at the bitterness. The cup was replaced with another and a little ginger tea filled his mouth. He allowed her to feed him small sips and it did, indeed, seem to settle his stomach a little.

It was difficult to suppress another whimper as the lowering of his head back into the cushions increased the throbbing but only moments later a warm damp cloth was draped over his eyes and Frodo was distantly aware of a soft blanket being tucked around him. Someone took his hand and stroked it gently.

A grey mist rose around him, cocooning him in soft layers of peace. Slowly, Frodo was prized away from the pain and nausea. The mist grew thicker and he floated away into blessed nothingness.


	3. Chapter 3

Voices . . . soft and low.

“From what you tell me it does sound the same.” A strange male voice . . . and then Esmeralda’s voice.

“I should have recognised it sooner. His mother suffered when she was younger but she mentioned nothing about him having them.”

Frodo swallowed and shifted a little, trying to establish where he was, and fingers touched his wrist.

“He’s waking up. He’s lucky he kept the sedative down.”

Frowning with the effort, Frodo tried to open his eyes to establish who the strange voice belonged to. His eyelids felt too heavy however. For a moment he took refuge in the comforting familiarity of his aunt’s light voice.

“I didn’t have any of the headache tea that Primula used to take. My Mama’s sedative was all I could think of. I couldn’t bear to see him suffering so, poor mite.”

“Well, I wouldn’t recommend it on a regular basis. It’s a bit powerful for a child and he’s probably going to be groggy enough for a few hours from the headache. I’ll send over some of the tea packets for you later.”

Frodo finally managed to crack open his eyes, blinking as he brought his bedroom into focus. The fingers returned, resting at his neck for a moment, and Frodo turned his head slowly to find a kindly faced, grey haired gentlehobbit bending over him. The lined face crinkled in a smile.

“Hello Frodo. Are you feeling a bit better now?”

For a moment the lad could not remember what he had felt like before, and then he swallowed, remembering the terrible pain and humiliating sickness. He had thrown up on the sitting room carpet, right in front of Aunt Esme. His face burned and tears began to gather in his eyes.

“Poppet?” Auntie Esmeralda appeared at the stranger’s side and Frodo could no longer hold in his anguish.

“I’m sorry, Auntie. I couldn’t hold it,” he sobbed.

Before he could draw another breath he was gathered to his aunt’s bosom and soft hands stroked his back and hair. 

“There, there, Poppet. It’s alright. You were very poorly. I’m not cross with you.” Her fingers continued to slide up and down his back. “Auntie is here. It’s all going to be better soon. Hush now.”

Esmeralda held him close, rocking him gently until his sobs subsided. When he was done she lowered him back into his pillows and tucked warm blankets and soft sheets about him. 

Esmeralda relinquished her place on the bed to the kindly old hobbit. “My name is Doctor Brockleby. Will you let me have a quick look at you? I promise I won’t hurt you . . . and then you can have some apple juice and go back to sleep if you like.”

Frodo wasn’t too sure that he wanted to go back to sleep, he had only just woken up after all, but the apple juice sounded very tempting so he nodded. The doctor smiled again and began his examination.

He listened to Frodo’s chest and got him to breathe in and out several times. Then he held up the fingers of his hand and asked the lad to count them, making him follow his finger as he moved it across his line of vision while Esmeralda held his head still.

“Well done, Frodo. Now, do you remember the headache that you had a little while ago?”

Frodo looked beyond Dr Brockleby, to where his aunt was pouring a drink. She handed it to the older hobbit, who helped Frodo sit up then handed him the cup. Frodo swallowed the apple juice greedily and his elders waited patiently until he had finished.

“What did the headache feel like?” the doctor coaxed as he settled Frodo back.

“It hurt.”

The doctor smiled. “I bet it did. Can you show me where it hurt?”

Frodo laid his hand upon the left side of his head, gingerly at first and then more confidently, as the touch did not bring a return of the agony. 

“Thank you. Your Auntie and Uncle say that you seemed to be having trouble reading earlier. Can you tell me why that was?”

The young hobbit considered for a moment. He was beginning to feel sleepy again and wished they would leave him alone, but he supposed they would not until he answered. 

“The words were foggy.”

“Foggy? I imagine that would make it rather difficult. Did the light hurt your eyes too?”

Frodo nodded. “Someone kept flashing something in my face and I felt very sick.” He looked up apologetically at his aunt and she smiled re-assuringly.

“It’s alright, Poppet. You couldn’t help it and it’s all cleaned up now. Don’t you worry about it.”

“Have you ever had a headache like that before, Frodo?” the doctor asked.

Frodo smothered a yawn. “No, sir.”

Doctor Brockleby smiled indulgently and patted Frodo’s hand. “Thank you. I won’t ask you any more questions now but I’m going to send your Auntie some flowers to make a tea for you. Will you promise me you’ll take it every day?”

Sleepy blue eyes focussed on the doctor’s face intently. “Will it taste nasty?”

The doctor’s smile broadened. “It won’t taste too bad and you can have as much honey in it as you like.” He tucked the covers about Frodo’s shoulders and stood up. “And it will help to stop you getting any more headaches. Will you take it?”

The lad yawned again, snuggling down into his covers. “Mm hm.” Dark lashes touched pale cheeks and Frodo tried to compose himself for sleep.

Doctor Brockleby ushered Esmeralda from the room, to where Saradoc was waiting in the hallway. They left the door slightly ajar.

“They are definitely the same kind of headaches. The symptoms he described are textbook signs of the illness and it is likely if his mother had them he would too. It can run in families. The sudden loss of his parents was likely the trigger.” Doctor Brocklebank’s voice held a tinge of sadness. 

“What is the treatment?” Frodo heard Saradoc ask. “And will it cure him?”

“There is no cure that I’m aware of,” answered the doctor. “But it has been found that taking tea made with feverfew on a daily basis can reduce the incidence of the headaches. It is a common herb which is probably grown in the Hall’s physic garden. I will leave instructions regarding preparation and dosage on my way out. Your infirmary is still in the west wing, is it not?”

“Yes and Dodinas is our herbalist,” Esmeralda replied. “Will the poor lad get headaches regularly? 

“I honestly don’t know. It varies a great deal from person to person and the frequency may reduce as he grows up. Watch his diet. There’s some who suggests certain food can trigger attacks.”

“Poor mite. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about,” murmured Esmeralda. 

“Yes, indeed,” concurred the doctor. “I will also give Dodinas a recipe for a sedative that will better suit a youngster if Frodo gets another headache. When he has an attack let him lie down in a darkened room and keep him warm and quiet. He may have difficulty keeping anything down but try and coax him to drink at the very least.”

“Thank you for coming so quickly Doctor. Let me show you to the infirmary so that you can speak to Dodinas.” Frodo heard his uncle shepherd the doctor away.

Although he tried to sleep and felt exhausted his thoughts kept spinning round and around. So when Esmeralda returned a little while later, with a basin and a glass of apple juice she found Frodo still awake.

“Hello Poppet.” Her voice was low and she smiled gently as she sat on the edge of his bed and held out the glass. “Can you manage this on your own?”

Frodo struggled upright, relieved when his head and stomach behaved. He did not trust his right hand, however, taking the glass in his left. The juice was sweet and tart and just what he needed.

His aunt smiled. “That’s better. The basin is here just in case but I don’t think you’re going to need it now, are you?”

“I feel a lot better thank you, Aunty. I’m sorry to be such a nuisance. I know Uncle Saradoc wants me to help him and I will once I’m better,” Frodo promised worriedly.

“Now don’t you worry about that. Your Uncle Saradoc can seem a bit gruff sometimes but he’s not cross with you. Your lessons are what are most important at the moment. You can help him when you’re feeling better if you like but, for a little while at least, we just want you to find your feet. Brandy Hall is a bit of a warren when you’re used to a small home. You’ve had a lot of changes these past few weeks so we’ll wait for you to settle a bit. Then we’ll talk about what you can do to help.” Esmeralda tucked a stray lock of burnt chestnut hair behind Frodo’s ear.

“I can’t replace your Mama and I wouldn’t want to. You will only have one Mama. But if you need anything at all I’ll be here for you, Poppet. Always.”

Frodo felt tears prickling his eyes and found that he couldn’t stop his chin from wobbling. “Oh Aunty. I want my Mama!” he wailed as she gathered him against her bosom.

“I know, Poppet. I know,” Esmeralda murmured as she rocked him gently, rubbing his back. “It’s alright to want her and it’s alright to cry.”

When Saradoc glanced through the open doorway a few minutes later they were still sitting thus, although Frodo’s sobs were subsiding a little. He only nodded to his wife and slipped quietly away. Tears would only help in the healing.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam pressed soil firmly about the delicate roots of the new plants. “What we plantin’ weeds for Da?”

Ham rubbed dirt from his trowel. “Now, what did I tell you about weeds, lad?”

Sam went to stick his thumb in his mouth, then thought better when he saw its colour. “Weeds is only flowers growin’ in the wrong place. But, Da . . . aint Mr Bilbo’s garden the wrong place for these?”

Hamfast collected up the rest of their tools, grunting as he climbed from his knees. “They’re not what I would call pretty, I’ll grant you. A mite straggly some might say. But some plants is good for medicine and this is one of ‘em.”

Sam trotted after his Da down the hill to Number Three. “Is Mr Bilbo sick, then?”

Hamfast shook his head wearily. It had been a long day and Sam’s mouth seemed to form a question every five minutes. “Not Mr Bilbo, no. But young Master Frodo is comin’ to live here in a few months and he needs to take a special tea, regular.”

Sam considered for about four minutes, so they were almost at the door when he asked, “Will Master Frodo stay in bed all the time then, like Sissy Proudfoot?”

Hamfast paused to hang his tools in the shed before ushering his youngest into the kitchen. “Gracious, no lad. Sissy got hit by a cart. Master Frodo just gets headaches sometimes, that’s all. And the tea’s supposed to stop ‘em.”

“Hello love. All finished?” asked Sam’s Ma as they closed the door.

 

O0o

“Hello Mr Gamgee.” Frodo poked his head out of the parlour window and Ham nearly dropped his shears on his toes as he leapt to his feet.

“Master Frodo! I thought you were off to Michel Delving with Mr Bilbo.”

“Uncle Falco doesn’t like young people, apparently.”

“Why ever not?” asked Ham, bushy brows rising in amazement at the thought that anyone would not like youngsters. He loved his own brood fiercely.

Frodo shrugged. “Even Uncle Bilbo doesn’t know. But he has been known to chase them off with a switch. He’s a bit of a recluse. Maybe he doesn’t like the noise.”

Ham sniffed. “Faunts should make noise. Playin’s part of growin’ up. Me and Bell would be in a worrit if any of ours got quiet for too long.”

“I imagine you would.” Frodo looked up at the impossibly blue summer sky. “And I think I’ve been quiet for too long myself today. What are you doing, Mr Gamgee?”

“Just trimmin’ the grass above the window and then I’m goin’ round back to dig some taters. Mr Bilbo said you was gettin’ low.” He stepped back in alarm as Frodo clambered out of the window, landing nimbly in the border between some petunias.

“I’d like to help if I may. I’ve been indoors too long and fancy some exercise.”

Ham blinked. Mr Bilbo had been known to dead head a few roses or pull a carrot but he’d never offered to dig taters and Ham wasn’t sure it was proper for a gentlehobbit. Then again, he didn’t hold with youngsters sitting indoors either. He held that fresh air made faunts grow. Master Frodo was no faunt but fresh air would do no harm. His height seemed to have outstripped his width at some point and if he couldn’t grow some proper hobbit padding he could at least grow some muscle, and for that there was few things better than digging. He gave the grass one last snip. “Right you are, Master Frodo. I’ll just gather my tools in the barrow and we can get goin’.”

He felt justified at once when Frodo’s face broke into a broad gap-toothed grin, and clearing up took no time with the youngster’s willing and eager hands. Only ten minutes later they were standing beside Bag End’s well tended vegetable plot.

Ham set his hands on his hips. “Now then, young master. What vegetables do you need for the pantry aside from taters?”

Frodo frowned. “Are the spring onions still good? Some lettuce perhaps? I’d rather have salad than boiled veg. today. I bought rainbow trout at market this morning.”

“A salad you say? I’ve tomatoes against the fence down the end. I reckon there’ll be some ready to pick and there’s cucumber in the frame. The spring onions are still good, though they need pullin’ soon. As for lettuce, you can either have a full head or just pick yourself some leaves. There’s three different varieties to choose from.”

Frodo’s eyes lit up, his mouth watering at the prospect of a fresh crisp salad with boiled new potatoes and lightly fried rainbow trout. “That sounds wonderful. I’ll just pick a few leaves of lettuce. No point having a whole head wilting in the pantry.”

“Good thinkin’ lad.” Ham pulled two trugs from the bottom of his barrow and handed one to his new assistant. “You gather lettuce and pull onions while I collect tomatoes and cucumber. Don’t forget to pull the onions from the base or you’ll get no bulb.”

Frodo grinned at Ham’s slip into the more familiar,‘lad’. It was nice to be treated like family, bringing back happy memories of his parents, now long gone. His parent’s smial had not been near as grand as Bag End and when Frodo was Sam Gamgee’s age he helped his father in the garden much as he was doing now. It felt comfortable . . . apart from the sun which was far too hot on the back of his neck. He never thought to tie a hanky around it for offering to help had been a spur of the moment decision. 

It was the work of only minutes to collect the salad items and Frodo carried them indoors to the pantry while Ham Gamgee popped home for an extra garden fork.  
“Have you dug taters afore, Master Frodo?” In the short period away Mr Gamgee had apparently remembered that he was addressing his employer’s heir and not one of his own. 

Frodo felt the loss. “I am afraid I haven’t. But I am willing to learn,” he replied as he accepted Ham’s best garden fork with a silent prayer that he would not break it.

Ham was sceptical but decided to let the lad have a go. There was a whole row to dig so any help was welcome. “Right, then. You start that end. The soil’s light so it should be easy goin’. Push in about a foot away from the plant and deep as you can, then just lever the handle like this.” Ham demonstrated and the first plant heeled over obligingly, revealing a network of roots with potatoes on the ends. “Check in the hole and just pull em’ all out and leave ‘em in the sun.” He watched as Frodo tried the next and nodded approval when he managed it well enough. He would pick up speed with practice and it seemed there were some muscles in that too-sleek body after all.

Frodo would like to have said that he dug half the row, but in truth Mr Gamgee met him only one third of the way along. Frodo was developing blisters on his palms and his right hand even seemed to be going numb. He smiled ruefully as he recalled Uncle Saradoc’s round tones. “Too long with your head in a book, Frodo.” 

He paused to straighten his back and Ham noticed, recognising all too well the stiffness of one not used to hard labour. “Come and have a drink of water, Master Frodo. We’ll sit for a few minutes afore collectin’ all them taters.”

Ham wound up a bucket of water while Frodo collected a couple of mugs from the kitchen and the two perched companionably upon the edge of the well to slake their thirst. Frodo took a good swallow of water and frowned. It had a slightly sour taste although Ham did not seem to notice. Maybe he had not washed the cup properly this morning. He threw out the water and refilled his mug. 

“Tis a good crop,” Ham observed. “A wet spring to get things goin’ and then a nice warm summer. If the weather holds there’ll be a fine wheat and barley harvest.”

Frodo took another sip and decided he still did not like the taste. “At Brandy Hall all the youngsters helped with harvest. We tied the sheaves and the little ones gleaned the fields after us. I even got to use a scythe the last year I was there.” He shifted a little to sit with his back to the overly bright sun.

Ham gained a new respect for the slender youth. “Did you now? Harvest is hard work to be sure. Me and mine have always helped Farmer Cotton and his lads at harvest time.” He nudged Frodo and grinned. “Mrs Cotton sets a good table.”

“Do you think she could feed one more?” Frodo asked as he stretched his neck. He was beginning to feel a headache coming on and put it down to unaccustomed exercise and not enough to drink. 

“Certain she can. Why, even Mr Bilbo’s been known to help out some years. Half Hobbiton turns out and most brings extra food. Then there’s Harvest Reel afterwards. Now there’s a party and a half.” Ham grinned and set down his empty cup. “Come on, Master Frodo. Tis the job soonest started that’s soonest finished. Let’s get these taters bagged and the greenery to the compost.”

Frodo set his own half-drunk mug aside, accepted a trug as Ham took the sack to his end of the row and began to throw in the now dry potatoes. Frodo went to the other end. His back protested immediately. By a quarter of the way his head felt as though it would burst and he began to get the familiar dreaded stabbing pains and blurred vision. He finally sank to his knees with a whimper.

Ham called, “What is it, Master Frodo? Are you sick?”

Frodo lifted a head that felt twice its usual weight. “Headache. Sorry,” was all he could manage between clenched teeth.

Ham ran to his young master. “You ninnyhammer, Hamfast Gamgee. This is your fault. Gentlehobbits aint made for diggin’ taters. I’ll catch it hot from Mister Bilbo later.” He wrapped an arm about Frodo’s shoulders. “Can you walk, sir? You’ll feel better lyin’ down inside I’m thinkin’.”

Struggling to his feet Frodo only bent forward to heave up the contents of his stomach. It was fortunate lunch had been forgotten and most of what brought up was water. “Sorry, Mr . . . “ Ham caught him as he fainted.

oOo

Frodo was lying flat and something cool was dabbing at his face, at least the half of it he could feel. He wished it would go away because the side of his head that could feel anything was feeling everything. A large, very sharp spike was being rammed repeatedly into the side of his skull and he lifted a hand to swipe it away.

“You’d best stop that, Sam. Let me in now.” That was Bell Gamgee’s voice, pitched soft and low. “Can you hear me Master Frodo?”

Frodo swallowed before whispering, “Yes.”

“Good lad. Is this one of those headaches Mr Bilbo said to watch for?”

“Yes.”

“Well, now at least we know what we’re dealin’ with. Sam lad, go fetch me the little brown bottle from the kitchen table, the one Mr Bilbo left us.”

“Yes, Ma.” 

Frodo tried not to wince when he felt the vibration of every step as Bell’s little faunt ran into the kitchen and back again.

“Now Sam. I think Mr Bilbo said it was five drops. Aye. Here it is on the side. Tis well it’s in numbers ‘cause I don’t have any letters and yours ain’t good enough yet.” 

Frodo wished they’d just stop talking and give him the drops. Then he could sleep off this beastly headache. He bit back a cry when Bell lifted the pillow. 

“Here, lad. Just you drink this down. Mr Bilbo says you’ve had it afore.” 

He swallowed, concentrating upon keeping the medicine down as his head was lowered once more.

“Should we move him to his bed, Bell?” Frodo recognised Ham’s voice.

“No, love. Let him sleep. He’s comfortable enough on the couch and movin’ could make him sick again.” Bell’s voice was close by and a gentle hand took his, stroking the back in a soothing rhythm. Frodo was vaguely aware of the room emptying until there was only the soft stroking of Bell’s thumb on his hand and the clock ticking. Somewhere between one tick and the next he slipped into merciful sleep.

oOo

Two days later Frodo knocked at the door to number three Bagshot Row. It was little Sam who admitted him to the Gamgee’s kitchen. Bell was cutting slices off a large brown loaf and her eldest daughter, Daisy, was buttering them.

“Why Master Frodo! Tis good to see you with some colour again. Are you feelin’ better?” asked Bell with a shining smile.

“Much better, thanks to you and your family. I am so sorry that I frightened you all. I’m afraid that with all the excitement of being left on my own in Bag End I forgot to take my tea that morning.” He held out a cloth covered plate triumphantly. “I’ve baked you a cake to thank you.”

Bell wiped her hands on her apron before lifting the cloth to reveal a large and very respectable looking seed cake. “Well now, you didn’t need to do that but I thank you very kindly. That will be very nice after supper and plenty for all. I couldn’t have baked better myself.”

Frodo took that as high praise. All Hobbiton and its surroundings knew that Bell Gamgee baked prize winning pies and cakes. “Bilbo is teaching me. I’m afraid I was not very interested in cookery when I lived at Brandy Hall.”

Bell decided to keep to herself her opinions of those who lived ‘down over’. “Will you stay to supper? There’s plenty. Tis salad with a nice bit of ham on the side.”

“No thank you, Mistress Gamgee. Bilbo arrived home a little while ago. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Bless you, no. There’ll be family news to catch up on I’ve no doubt.” Bell shooed him good naturedly out of the door, slipping the little brown bottle into his hand and bending to whisper, “I’ll not tell your uncle about the slip if you don’t.”

Frodo leaned in impulsively to give her a hug. “Thank you, Mistress Gamgee.”


	5. Chapter 5

Opening the jar, Frodo took a large spoonful of dried flowers and dropped them into the little teapot kept especially for his tea. Bilbo added the boiling water and stirred the contents as they both settled at Bag End’s big kitchen table.

“Have you packed everything, Frodo?” 

“Yes, mostly, Uncle . . . er . . . Bilbo.” He grimaced. “Sorry. I called you Uncle for so long.”

Bilbo chuckled. “Well, you’re old enough now to call me Bilbo. And if it makes it any easier just remember that we’re cousins too.”

Frodo grinned and began to attack his sausage. “How long will it take us to reach the Woody End?”

“About one and a half days on foot. But I don’t like to rush things. A lot of the fun of travelling is in the getting there.” Bilbo dabbed a little egg yolk from his chin.

Frodo poured his tea, adding a very liberal helping of honey. “Are we going to take the East Road?”

“Goodness me, no.” Bilbo shuddered. “All those carts and ponies and dust . . . We’ll take the Stock Road once we’ve cut through Farmer Cotton’s land. He won’t mind as long as we stick to the hedgerows and don’t go trampling his crops.”

Frodo took a swallow of his tea and followed it at once with a piece of bacon. Even after all these years he still did not like the taste of feverfew. But being relatively headache free was more than worth the taste. He made a mental note to ensure that he packed some flowers to take with him. That particular item had not come to the top of his list yet. It was just below ‘hankies’, which was just below “Sindarin dictionary”, which was just below “spare smalls”.

“There are no inns on the Stock Road are there? So we’ll be sleeping outdoors. Should we take a canvas in case it rains?” Frodo had never walked so far before or slept out of doors.

“Oh, it won’t rain this time of year,” Bilbo announced airily as he swallowed some fried bread. “And canvas will be much too heavy to carry. There are plenty of trees and hedgerows to shelter beneath if we have a rain shower.”

oOo

It was after ten in the morning by the time they had finished second breakfast, done the washing up, finished packing and started out. And it was half an hour later than that before they actually began their walk, for when they had dropped off the key to Bag End with Bell Gamgee she had insisted upon offering them a cup of tea and biscuit or two, just in case they did not have time for elevenses.

As it was Bell’s laundry day both Bagginses were much relieved to exchange the dimly lit and steamy kitchen for fresh air and blue skies. By the time they forded the Water Bilbo was teaching Frodo one of his walking songs and their voices and laughter were sending the sparrows into a commotion in the hedgerows. By noon they had crossed the East Road and halted beneath some birches at the other side to eat their lunch. Bilbo pulled out his pipe after the meal and ran Frodo through some Sindarin verb conjugation. As a consequence, by the time they set out again the afternoon was drawing on and they travelled only a little way before Bilbo called a halt for the day.

They made camp within a clump of fir trees, just over the brow of one of the hills. This was rolling hill country with chalk only inches below the soil so they heard only the sound of the odd sheep and even that was deadened by the dense trees. There was a fresh stream, which dived beneath the road in a culvert below them so there was plenty of water for washing and drinking. 

Until then Bilbo’s weather sense had been correct and the day had been sunny but just as they finished supper the heavens opened and they had to run for cover. It did not last long but they had to hang their coats by the fire to air and it took some time to find a dry place to curl up in their blankets for the night. Frodo had to borrow a hanky from Bilbo to wipe the rain from his face as he discovered he had forgotten to pack them. Bilbo had laughed uproariously for several minutes before launching into the tale of his departure from Hobbiton to join the dwarves, and how it was Gandalf who had the presence of mind to bring some hankies for him, along with a pipe.

Fortunately there was no more rain during the night and having breakfasted early and heartily, Bilbo left to answer a call of nature while Frodo washed their pots and pans and made his morning tea. It was well that Bilbo was fastidious enough to travel some distance from their campsite for it gave Frodo plenty of time to search his pack. That’s when he discovered that any items on his list below, “Sindarin dictionary” had not made it from his head to his bag. He should have guessed as much when he discovered he had no hankies last night.

Frodo considered as he packed away their cooking gear. If he told Bilbo they would have to go home, which would take them the best part of a day. He could develop a headache whether they went forward or back, he convinced himself. He may not even have a headache and he dearly wanted to meet elves. The excursion had been planned for some months, with letters coming to and fro from Rivendell several times. So by the time Bilbo returned Frodo was standing, smiling, beside two repacked travel bags. If Bilbo thought the smile looked a little forced he said nothing, merely shouldering his pack and setting off down the hill, through the trees.

The morning passed pleasantly, although they had to stop twice for Frodo to refill his water bottle. It seemed walking was thirsty work. By lunch they were within sight of the borders of the Woody End. Although Frodo had lived at this end of the Shire for much of his childhood his exploration had never taken him beyond the farmland at its far side. Mushroom fields were ever a distraction to young hobbits. The woodland itself was a mysterious place to him. That Bilbo said elves were to be found travelling through it on occasion made it doubly so.

Lunch was a simple affair. They had fried extra sausages at breakfast and now they ate those, with some pickle and biscuits. At least Bilbo ate his. After the first mouthful Frodo decided that his tasted a little strange and he tucked it into the roots of the tree he was leaning against when his uncle was not looking. Doubtless some foraging woodland animal would discover a rare treat after they left. Their stop was not long as Bilbo wanted to be well within the borders of the wood before dark.

Conversation was sparse as they continued, which suited Frodo well, for the sun was piercingly bright and he tucked his head down to avoid it as much as possible. Bilbo rambled on about the doings of their neighbours for some time, seemingly happy with his nephew’s only occasional comments, but even he ceased to talk after a while. To enter the cool dark of the wood was, for Frodo, like wondering in the desert and suddenly being presented with a lake. For a moment he simply stood still, taking deep breaths of green air. That was when Bilbo took him by the shoulders and turned him about.

“Alright Frodo, my lad. What is it?” Frodo did not have to answer for Bilbo could now see his pale features and the way he screwed up his eyes against the light. With a sigh, the elder hobbit glanced about before leading his nephew to sit upon a fallen log.

“You forgot to take your tea, didn’t you? Sit there a moment and I’ll make a fire. It won’t take long to boil some water.” He began to rummage in Frodo’s pack. “Where did you put the feverfew?”

Frodo started to shake his head, and then thought better of it as blue zigzag lines began to dance dizzily at the edges of his vision. His voice seemed to reverberate as he muttered, “Forgot to pack them, Bilbo. Sorry.”

Closing his eyes, Frodo could still see the flashing lines and he concentrated on swallowing hard to prevent the imminent evacuation of his stomach. He was drawn from his efforts by a gentle hand beneath his elbow and Bilbo’s gruff but gentle voice at his ear. “Come on, lad. I’ve spread out your blanket. You’d best come lie down and see if you can sleep this off.”

Bilbo made sure there was a water bottle within Frodo’s reach before grabbing his coat and running into the trees. Perhaps the elves had arrived early. He could only hope.


	6. Chapter 6

Frodo was aware of voices about him. The words carried a strange, melodic lilt that he had never encountered before so that, at first, he thought they were singing. Just their sound seemed to soothe the agony in his head. Then there was another voice, closer. “How long has he been thus?”

He recognised Bilbo next. “As I explained to Lord Elrond in my letters, he’s suffered from the headaches on and off for ten years or more. This one came on at about mid afternoon today.”

There were rustling sounds around him, like a soft breeze in spring leaves, and he suspected that he was surrounded by several people. Frodo tried to open his eyes, preparing himself for the onslaught of sunlight on the tender orbs beneath. But his eyes were met by darkness and Bilbo’s breeches clad knees, lit by the glow of firelight somewhere behind them. He blinked.

“He awakens, Bilbo. Perhaps it would better were you to make the introductions.”

Frodo watched as Bilbo’s knees folded and his uncle’s weskit and then familiar but concerned face dropped into view. That’s when Frodo discovered that he was no longer lying upon the cold earth but upon something slightly higher; something soft and springy and altogether more comfortable. However had Bilbo managed to find a feather bed in the middle of a wood?

“How are you feeling now, Frodo my lad?” Bilbo kept his voice low.

Frodo considered. How was he? He dare not move his pounding head, for fear of casting up his accounts. His shoulders and neck ached and he could only feel one of his two hands. Not that it was easy to see his hands anyway through the jiggling lines and spots, so perhaps he did only have one. All of this, of course, he had not the energy to communicate so he settled for a wan, “It all hurts.”

“Oh, lad.” Bilbo reached out a hand to stroke Frodo’s brow and the youngster winced, moaning as what felt like a brick struck him on the head. For some time, even after its hasty removal, he kept his eyes shut in an attempt to reduce the intensified, “Thump, thump, thump” so he missed some conversation

“. . . me examine him more closely.” The voice was light and eased some of the pain in some strange way. 

Frodo opened his eyes again, blinking when he came face to face with a creature he had only imagined in his dreams. The elf had hair the glossy black of a raven’s wing, sharp contrast to the flawless pale skin. His clothes were simply cut and it was impossible to tell their colour for they seemed to blend into the shadows. But they were clearly made of fabric better than any to be got in the Shire. All this was secondary to the eyes. In the dim light they were almost clear, pale grey or silver perhaps, but it was not the colour that drew Frodo’s wavering gaze. Though the face bore not one line of age the eyes were replete with years innumerable. 

He smiled softly. “Well met, Frodo Baggins. My name is Celfin. We were on our way to meet you when we encountered Bilbo alone.”

Bilbo’s voice came from somewhere beyond Frodo’s limited field of vision. “I decided to try and find them. You needed help, lad.”

Frodo tried to make his mouth work. “Sorry, Bilbo.”

“Oh tush, Lad. We all make mistakes. A little bag of flowers is easily forgotten.”

“What does he take?” asked Celfin as he accepted a soft blanket and began to tuck it gently about Frodo.

“I don’t know the elvish name for it. We call it feverfew. It has little white flowers with a yellow centre. But it’s supposed to stop the headaches happening. When he actually gets one he takes a tea prepared by the herb master at Brandy Hall. I don’t know what’s in it.”

“I have something that will suffice,” Celfin replied as he searched a satchel hung over his shoulder. He opened a tiny crystal vial and tipped a single drop of clear liquid onto his fingertip. Gently, he prised open Frodo’s lips and rubbed the drop along the upper gum. 

“Now we must wait for it to take effect.” Celfin rose in one fluid movement. So tall was he that Frodo was unable to follow his face, as it floated up and up, and he closed his eyes instead. At some point the pain began to fade and Frodo drifted into quiet sleep.

Celfin and Bilbo sat by the fire, watching as other elves prepared a simple repast of cheese, fruits and bread. 

Celfin spoke first. “I believe I have seen this malady before. My Lord Elrond gave no specific report of your correspondence for I suspect he wished me to draw my own conclusions. Does your nephew have disturbances of vision or paralysis when he suffers these headaches?”

Bilbo nodded, taking a sip of water. “Both, although he doesn’t tell me much. I just make his tea and let him sleep.”

“How long do the attacks last?” asked their host as he accepted a cup from one of his companions.

“It’s difficult to say. He doesn’t say much until he brews the special tea. They seem to vary. I know that when it’s gone it can be two or more days before he’s fully himself again. It’s a frightening thing to see a hobbit off his food. Especially a tween.”

“Forgive me. I know little of your people. Is he still a child?” asked Celfin with a frown.

“Not a child but not yet an adult is the best way I can describe a tween. It’s the time between the age of twenty and coming of age at thirty-three. But I don’t suppose that means much to an elf.”

Celfin smiled. “We do mature differently.” His eyes grew thoughtful.

“You can help him, can’t you? Lord Elrond said you were one of his best healers.” Bilbo had wanted to take Frodo all the way to Rivendell but Elrond had told him it would not be necessary, as Celfin would be passing through the Shire on his way to the Havens.

If Celfin took any insult at Bilbo’s words he did not show it, setting down his cup and scrip. “I need to examine a healthy adult to make some comparison. Will you allow me to examine you, Mr Baggins?”

Bilbo blinked. Doctors and healers were not folks he’d had much need of for many a year and he wondered what form this examination would take. Then he thought of his nephew. “Very well.” He leaned closer to Celfin to ask, “Do I need to get undressed or anything?”

The healer shook his head, smiling a little. “I can glean all the information I need without that. But it would ease my task were you to lie down.” With that he spread a blanket at his feet.

Bilbo obliged readily, crossing his ankles rather self consciously and folding his hands upon his chest. Celfin smiled, moving Bilbo’s arms to his sides before drawing a deep breath and placing his hands a scant inch above the hobbit’s face. Bilbo automatically closed his eyes and then found himself drifting upon the borders of sleep between one breath and the next. When he opened them once more it was to the awareness that time had passed, although he did not think it could have been much for the stars did not appear to have moved. Celfin helped him to a seat and offered a cup of water. The elven healer had a closed expression upon his face that made Bilbo feel a little uncomfortable. 

“Did you learn what you needed?” Bilbo asked as he tugged his waistcoat straight and, without conscious thought, checked his trouser pocket.

“Would you permit me to enquire of your age, Master Baggins?”

Bilbo slipped a hand in his pocket, taking a moment to consider before sticking out his chin to assert. “I am seventy-nine. A very sensible age for a hobbit.”

Celfin frowned now. “A sensible age indeed. I believe you to be remarkably well preserved (is that the correct phrase?) for your age.”

Bilbo shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. “We Bagginses have always been long lived,” he replied as he clasped his hands in his lap.

Celfin did not pursue the matter further, much to Bilbo’s relief, moving instead to check upon Frodo who was sleeping peacefully now. As he had with Bilbo the elf gently straightened Frodo’s limbs and placed his hands above his brow. Bilbo watched with interest as the elven healer ran his hands the full length of Frodo’s body, without actually touching him. When he had finished he rejoined Bilbo.

“Would you consider Master Frodo to be fully matured for a hobbit?”

Bilbo chuckled. “Mature enough to be taking an interest in the lasses but not yet of an age to be courting them formally, by Shire standards. Why do you ask?”

Celfin shrugged. “I merely wished to establish whether any differences I encountered between you and your nephew were not merely the result of an incomplete maturity of the body.”

Bilbo coughed, blushing a little. “Well, I don’t enquire too closely about such things, but I believe everything works in the lad as it would in an adult hobbit.”

“And Frodo was but a child when the illness commenced?”

Relieved that the conversation was changing direction, Bilbo nodded.

Celfin glanced aside, to where Frodo was shifting position. “He will awaken soon. And his headache will be improved.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened. “You’ve cured him already?”

Celfin raised a hand to forestall him at once. “Nay, Little Master. I have only given him the rest he required to enable his body to recover.” He took a sip of his water. “I have encountered this malady before and I regret that I am aware of no cure.”

Bilbo slumped. “Oh. I had hoped . . .”

“I may be able to offer some light, however. It is often the case, when this illness strikes in youth, that it ceases when the body reaches full maturity. There are many chemical changes that take place at that time and they can be enough to stop the illness. Much will depend upon the degree of maturity your nephew has still to accomplish.”

Bilbo glanced aside at the youth. “A little, I think. But not too much,” he replied sadly.

Celfin rose to check upon his charge once more as Frodo shifted again. “I regret that I was not able to offer more assistance.”

When Frodo blinked open sleepy eyes Bilbo came to join the elven healer, smiling down into those still bleary eyes. “Hello again, Frodo. Feeling better?”


	7. Chapter 7

Frodo awoke slowly from a place of peace and gentle music. He could not remember ever awakening so refreshed and for some time he simply lay still, listening to a beautiful melody that seemed to play both within and without his head. As he rose gently to the surface of awakening he began to realise that the music without was of fair voices speaking in an elvish tongue and that the melody within him was spun from the melody without. 

Curiosity finally drew him up from the dream and he blinked open his eyes at last. His eyes focussed upon the familiar face of Bilbo, smiling down at him.

“Feeling better?”

For a few moments Frodo could not recall where he was or how he had arrived here. But politeness bid him reply at once, “I feel very well, Uncle.”

“He has slept it off, then. That is well.” 

The voice spoke Westron but with a cadence that made it sound like the fairest of music and Frodo blinked in awe as his gaze travelled up the tall, tall form and came to rest upon the fairest face he had ever beheld. Had that being not reached out a hand to restrain him gently Frodo would have leapt to his feet, for surely this was one of the Valar come to Middle earth. Or perhaps he was dead and had come to the end of days.

Once again, good manners came to his rescue and he managed to whisper, “Êl síla nan lû e-govannen vín.”

Bilbo coughed, “’Govaded’ lad. You have just told him that a star shines on the occasion of our ‘met’.”

Frodo blushed but the fair one only laughed softly. “It was well said for one yet a pupil and I am honoured to be addressed in my own tongue.” He touched hand to heart and tilted his head with a welcoming smile. “Mea govannin, Frodo, Son of Drogo. I am called Celfin, Son of Celbar.”

Now it was Bilbo’s turn to blush. “Where are my manners? I do apologise. It was my place to introduce you both but I was so worried about Frodo that it seems my wits have scattered to the four winds.”

Frodo could not help but join Celfin in laughter. It was not often that Bilbo Baggins was caught short when it came to manners. But when the laughter died away memory flooded in and Frodo sat up. “I was poorly,” he stated in surprise. He raised a hand to his temple and found no tenderness. Then he turned his head this way and that, discovering no pain or floating lights. “How long was I asleep?”

“But a few hours. Do you suffer any lingering symptoms?” Celfin asked as he drew off Frodo’s blanket and began to fold it.

“No. The headache has completely gone.” He flexed his hands. “Even the numbness has gone.” His eyes widened. “Is this elven magic? Have you cured me?” he asked hopefully. 

Celfin shook his head. “I have not such magic. I merely provided your body with respite enough to recover itself.”

Frodo’s face fell for a moment but then he considered how fortunate he was that Celfin had been able to help him at all, out here in the wilds. At least, this felt like the wilds to a hobbit bred to fine homes and feather beds. That was when he noticed that he was not sitting upon the damp earth but upon a bed woven of the living branches of a tree, bent low to the ground and padded thickly with sweet smelling bracken. “Well, thank you for what you have done. I don’t want to consider how we would have coped if you hadn’t found us.”

“Oh, it was not I who discover you, but rather Master Bilbo who found us. He would make a good tracker if ever he took to hunting. We elves are not the easiest folk to find, although there I believe our singing gave us away.” Celfin set the folded blanket aside and offered Frodo a hand up. “Do not move too swiftly. You have been prone for several hours.”

However, when Frodo stood he found no sign of the usual aftermath of one of his headaches or from his long sleep. Indeed, he felt better than he had in a long time. “Please excuse me, but I must do this or I will burst.” With that he threw his arms up and wide, stretching his fingers to the treetops and arching his back like a cat.

“From that, I take it that you are feeling much recovered.” Celfin chuckled softly then led him to the centre of their camp where a merry fire flickered and food lay ready. Frodo and Bilbo ate their share and more, when it was pressed upon them. There was a hot but delicately seasoned watercress soup, followed by soft bread, with honey more sweet and fragrant than Frodo had ever tasted. Finally there were pears and apples so juicy that the hobbits had to keep wiping their chins. All was washed down with refreshing crystal cold water or little cups of mead.

Throughout it all Celfin and his companions encouraged Frodo to use his halting Sindarin, correcting so mildly his syntax and pronunciation that the lad felt no censure and often chuckled at his errors. 

“Where are you bound,” Frodo asked as he took a sip of the one cup of fragrant mead that Bilbo has allowed him, and felt its warmth course through him. 

Celfin poured a little more into Bilbo’s cup. “We journey to the Havens to the west of your lands. You will often find our folk in these woods at the spring and autumn of the year, when the tides are at their highest.”

At the thought of such beautiful beings leaving the world Frodo felt sorrow grip his heart. “Are many of you leaving?”

“Aye, Little One. We grow weary of this land and wish to see again the towers and shining shores of our home.” Celfin smiled. “But do not fear. You have not seen the last of my folk for, although we are not as many as once roamed this land, there are enough yet to fill a perrian’s life with teachers.” He glanced aside. “Even a perrian as long lived as Bilbo Baggins.”

Bilbo only took a large swallow of his mead.

A little while later, when all the food was consumed, instruments were produced and Frodo was treated to the sound of elven voices raised in song. They sung in an ancient language Frodo did not understand and Bilbo translated for him at first. But as the music wove its magic he found that words were not needed for images formed and reformed in his mind. 

He saw spires of silver and white against a clear blue sky, and lands so green that they almost hurt his eyes to look upon. Then there was the sea, blue and still as Sandyman’s millpond, wild and white capped or green as the deepest lake. Small as he was, Frodo felt himself shrink even further against the vastness of such a sight. He was both afraid and yet drawn to the sight.

When he returned to his senses it was to find that the fire was dying. The music had paused and Frodo glanced up to find that Ithil was already dipping down toward the land. He thought he had taken his fill of sleep but as Bilbo and Celfin helped him back to his bed he made no protest and slumber drifted down about his shoulders like a soft and welcome mantle.

Just as the sky began to lighten Frodo was awakened by Celfin. He tucked a small vial into Frodo’s hand. “Take five drops when you break your fast. It will perform the same function as your tea and there is sufficient here for three days. I am sorry that I cannot gift you with more healing than this but at least it is sufficient to see you returned safely to your home.”

“Thank you. And don’t be sorry. This has been one of the most precious experiences of my life.” Frodo placed his hand upon his heart as he had seen Celfin do. “Navaer. Harthon gerithach aeair vilui.”

“Well said.” Celfin returned the gesture. “Navaer. Harthon gerithach raid gelin a chwest adel thraw lín.” Then he joined the rest of his folk and Frodo watched them fade into the trees like mist upon a dawn lake.

oOo

Frodo threw the last plant into Sam’s barrow and rose, brushing dirt from his knees. 

“Are you sure about this, Mr Frodo?”

Frodo grinned, slapping Sam on the back. “Absolutely. I haven’t had one of those beastly headaches since just after Bilbo left and I stopped taking the tea nearly two years ago, although I said nothing at the time.”

“Well, I’m right pleased, Sir. I remember you being poorly quite a few times when you first came to Bag End. It broke my heart to see you laid so low.”

“Well, I’m disgustingly hale and hearty now. So it’s time to plant some nice snapdragons in that bed.” 

A fine chain ran from Frodo’s belt to his pocket and now he slipped a hand inside that breeches pocket as he sauntered back up the path to Bag End’s open door.

END

 

Êl síla nan lû e-govaded vín. = A star shines on the occasion of our meeting.

Navaer. = Farewell.

Harthon gerithach aeair vilui. = I hope you will have kind seas.

Harthon gerithach raid gelin a chwest adel thraw lín. = I hope you will have green paths and a breeze behind you.


End file.
